Page 71 of Calder Country

To whomever finds this note:

I have just made a terrible mistake. In my foolish vanity, I shared a secret with a man I trusted, a man I believed to be my friend—Julius Taviani. I have since learned more about the man from people who fear him. I have come to understand that in confiding my secret, I have compromised my daughter’s safety and my own life. Mr. Taviani has arranged the deaths of others, and I fear that I will be next.

Mr. Taviani relies on others to do his killing for him. But if I am dead by the time you read this, know that it was on Taviani’s orders. He is as guilty of murder as if he’d committed the act with his own hands.

To my daughter, Ruby, I send my love and a plea for forgiveness. I can only pray that she escapes this net of evil and finds her way to a happy life.

Arthur Murchison

Heart pounding, Mason read the letter again. It was evidence, but it wasn’t proof. He needed more.

He was folding the letter, planning to replace it in the book, when Piston looked up at him. “What’s that paper?” he asked.

It was now or never. “It’s a letter from a man who died in here. A man with graying hair and a little moustache. Did you know him?”

“Uh-huh.” Mason nodded. “He was nice.”

“Did you have to hurt him, Piston?”

The big man nodded again, gazing down at the table. “Mr. Taviani made me do it. With my hands. He wouldn’t let me stop.”

“So Mr. Taviani was there with you when the man died?”

A tear rolled down Piston’s cheek. “I didn’t mean to kill him. He was nice. Mr. Taviani gave me ice cream after, but I still felt bad.”

And there it was. Mason had the letter and he had Piston’s confession. But would the authorities believe a man with diminished capacity, a man who couldn’t read or write?

Mason tucked the book, with the hidden letter, inside his undershirt. “What if I told you that you’d never have to hurt anybody again?” he asked. But Piston wasn’t paying attention. His gaze was riveted on the library door, which had just opened.

Mason turned. Taviani stood in the doorway with the open walkway behind him, a brutally cold expression on his face. Clearly, he’d heard everything, or at least enough.

Piston was on his feet now, looking confused. His gaze darted from Mason to the old man.

Taviani pointed to Mason. “Kill him, Piston,” he ordered. “Do it now.”

Piston hesitated, then raised his head and squared his massive shoulders. “No,” he said.

The old man’s face went livid. He drew a small revolver from his pocket. It was hard to believe that a prisoner could have a pistol, but Taviani had ways of getting what he wanted. “I mean it,” he said, pointing the gun at Piston. “Do what I say. Now.”

“You’re not going to fire that gun, Taviani,” Mason said. “If it’s loaded, which I doubt, the sound would bring every guard in the place, and even you would be in big trouble.” He turned to the big man. “You don’t have to do what he says, Piston. You can be free of him. No more killing. You’ve already taken the first step. You’ve said no.”

“Don’t listen to him, Piston,” Taviani snarled, pointing the gun. “I’m giving you to the count of three. If you haven’t made a move, I’ll pull this trigger.” He took a deep breath. Beads of nervous sweat stood out on the old man’s forehead as he began the count. “One . . . two . . . three!”

On the count of three, Piston charged him. Lunging through the open door, he pushed Taviani out onto the walkway. The momentum carried both men to the railing and over it. Piston had his hands around the old man’s throat as they plummeted to the concrete floor below and lay still.

Mason raced out of the library and down the nearby steps. He reached the two men ahead of the guards. Piston was moaning, badly injured but alive. Taviani lay on his back, blood pooling around his head. His grin was like a death’s head as Mason leaned over him.

“I’m done for, Dollarhide,” he said in a gurgling voice. “But there’s one thing I meant to tell you. Colucci told me he’s tracked down your little pilot. As it turns out, she’s at your ranch.” His laugh was hideous, spraying drops of blood. “I told him to go ahead and kill her, along with any witnesses.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

RUBY HAD HER WORK CUT OUT FOR HER. THE HOUSE ON THE Hollister Ranch hadn’t had a thorough cleaning in years. The two people who lived here were neat in their habits. But Sidney, the butler, had a bad back and hadn’t been able to give the place more than a passing swipe with a feather duster or a kitchen towel. Mrs. Dollarhide—whose given name, Amelia, Ruby wasn’t allowed to use—was much too fine to soil her hands with housecleaning, and she didn’t trust anyone from town to come in and do the work—they would either steal valuables or carry tales back to their friends.

The walls and ceilings were dingy with coal dust. The worn and matted carpets were gray with dirt and dog hair.

The outside of the windows was layered with road dust and rain spatters. And that was only the beginning.

Ruby suspected that the house’s aging residents were too nearsighted to see all that needed to be done, or maybe they’d been here too long to notice.

---